Treachery’s Devotion_Masters’ Admiralty 1

by Mari Carr

  “The coins with the picture of the Pope. They’re damaged. The obols mean death.”

  “Madonna santa.” Sophia pressed her hand against her heart. “This cannot be.”

  James found what he was looking for in the museum database—a similar coin, in better condition, with the text clearly visible. If he was right about that coin, then that meant…

  He looked at the coins bearing the images of masks. This time it wasn’t the fact that he was a numismatist that let him make the connection, but the fact that he spent every day in one of the world’s best museums. Last year, after the release of a new Jane Austen movie adaptation, there’d been an exhibit on eighteenth- and nineteenth-century fashion.

  “Stop.” James’s voice was harder than he’d meant it to be, but his heart was in his throat. “It’s not the Pope. Not the Roman Catholic Pope.”

  He folded back the felt, hiding the twenty-seven stacked coins. Then he grabbed the bag of loose coins and emptied it onto the white tablecloth. His fingers sifted gently but quickly through the coins, his eyes flicking to each.

  After only a moment, he knew he was right.

  Sophia was also sorting the coins. “There are only two kinds.” She picked up one. “This is some British commemorative coin.” Her breath caught. “Commemorative of Admiral Lord Nelson.”

  Tristan picked up one of the other coins. “This is a Manx pound. The currency of the Isle of Man.”

  No one moved. No one breathed.

  “No, no, no.” Sophia’s words broke the silence. She shook her head, her ponytail whipping side to side.

  “The leader of the Jesuits, the Superior General, is sometimes called the Black Pope, because the Jesuits wear black.” James looked at his companions. “Right, Sophia?”

  “Si,” she whispered.

  “So the Vatican coins may mean this has something to do with the church. Or the Jesuits. Most of the coins show the Jesuit Christogram, and the damage to the blackened papal images could be meant to represent the Jesuit Superior General—the Black Pope.”

  “I sense a ‘but’,” Tristan said grimly.

  “But…” James inhaled, then exhaled again, keeping his breathing steady so he didn’t panic and freak out. “My great aunt, a Masters’ Admiralty historian, told me that the leader of our society used to be called the Shadow Pope, or the Dark Pope.”

  Sophia folded back the felt, revealing the stacked coins. “The mask will kill the Shadow Pope.”

  Tristan surged to his feet, hand on his sword. James looked down at the coins—the currency from the Isle of Man, where the Masters’ Admiralty was headquartered. The coins bearing the likeness of Admiral Nelson, for whom the society was currently named.

  “This has nothing to do with the church.” James met both their gazes in turn. “He’s going to kill the fleet admiral.”

  Chapter Six

  Sophia tried, and failed, to control the outrage in her voice. “Father, you must listen to me. The coins—”

  “The coins aren’t important anymore. They’ve told you what we needed to know.”

  She wanted to scream and throw her hands in the air, but knew that wouldn’t get her anywhere with her father. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to see her hands since they were on the phone. “The paintings too. They were painted by Daniel Giovossi, who spent ten years living on the Isle of Man before returning to Italy.”

  “All that is meant to do is to taunt me. He’s telling me he knows exactly who I am—that I have ties to both the isle and to Italy.”

  Sophia noted that her father had used the first person. The admiral of Rome was assuming the killer’s message was directed at him. Her father’s arrogance was astounding.

  “If it was directed at you, there would have been other ways to indicate that.”

  Tristan appeared in the doorway to her left and held up six fingers.

  “Father,” she said, somewhat desperately, “if you were the target, they would have included Roman coins, with the images of Caesar.”

  “This murder took place in Rome.”

  “Please, Father. You have to alert the fleet admiral.”

  “He does not need to be troubled by these sorts of things.”

  Sophia held the phone so hard she could hear it creak in her hand. This conversation was hopeless. “Of course, Father.”

  He made a pleased noise. “Very good, Sophia. I will speak with you later.”

  “Goodbye.” She hung up, laying the antique ivory and gold phone back in the cradle.

  Tristan was still in the doorway. “I don’t speak Italian, but it doesn’t sound like that went well.”

  “It did not. He won’t listen.”

  Tristan nodded. “Our plane leaves at six a.m.”

  “You’re leaving?” That explained why he’d held up six fingers. It was nearing midnight now.

  “Yes. We’ll return to London long enough for the plane to refuel and for James to deplane.”

  “You’re going on, to the Isle of Man?”

  “Yes. And you should know that I’ve told England’s vice admiral what we found. Our other knights are otherwise occupied, so Lorelei is going to alert the Spartan Guard.”

  Sophia nodded. “Good. And I’m coming with you.”

  Tristan raised his eyebrows. “Pardon me?”

  “My father would not listen to me. If you hadn’t been here…” She heaved a sigh. “No one in Rome will go against my father.”

  “He’s the admiral.”

  “Caesar. He thinks of himself as Caesar. He would prefer we call the fleet admiral the emperor.”

  “I thought we stopped calling him that two hundred years ago.”

  “My father does not like that we adopted English terms. But that is not my point. If we’re right, the fleet admiral is in danger. My father would not warn him because he thinks there’s no need, and I’m afraid our vice admiral would not go against him. If you weren’t here to send the message through your leadership, the fleet admiral would not know he was in danger.”

  Tristan’s face was hard. “It is the duty of every member to safeguard and protect the fleet admiral.”

  Sophia realized that she’d just informed a knight of England that the admiral of Rome was not doing his duty. Shit.

  She rushed over to Tristan, taking his hand in hers. “Please, I did not mean it the way it sounded. My father is a good man, a proud man. He is sure they will catch the killer here, in Rome.”

  “I am a knight.”

  Sophia dropped his hand and took a step back. “I know that. What will you do?”

  “I will do exactly what I said. I will go to the Isle of Man and provide support to the Spartan Guard.”

  She raised her chin. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Why?” He stared at her as if she were a stranger. Logically, she knew they were strangers to one another, but the horror they’d seen together felt like a bond, as if in only a few hours they were more connected than people who’d spent years together.

  Sophia folded her hands at her waist, back straight, gaze level. “I am the Princess of Rome. I am an officer of the Carabinieri. I will travel with you as an ambassador of Rome. While my father and brother focus on finding the killer here in Italy, I offer my support to the Knight of England on your quest to ascertain the safety of the fleet admiral.”

  James appeared behind Tristan. He must have heard most of what she’d said, because he was smiling.

  “You just got out-politicked, Tristan.”

  Tristan sent a baleful look in James’s direction. “This isn’t about politics; it’s about protecting the fleet admiral. That’s my duty as a knight.”

  “Technically, isn’t it the Spartan Guard’s duty?” James mused.

  She switched tactics. “Please, Tristan. Let me go with you.”

  He shook his head. “I have to tell my vice admiral what I know. That will include the fact that your father was aware of what we found, and did nothing.”

  Sophia’s stomach c
lenched with anxiety. Her father was savvy and powerful. He could weather a storm like this, though not unscathed. That didn’t lessen the fact that she’d made such a big mistake, speaking so openly in front of a knight of another territory. “I understand you have your duty. And I have mine.”

  “Sounds like it’s settled.” James threw his arm over Tristan’s shoulders. “We’re all going to the Isle of Man.”

  “Wait, what? You’re not going,” Tristan said.

  “Yep. I am.”

  “No.”

  “Oh, but yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m a part of this. I want to see it through.”

  Tristan shrugged off James’s arm and said something so fast, and in such a strong accent, that Sophia couldn’t comprehend it. “I didn’t understand.”

  “He called us bloody fucking wankers. His east end is showing.”

  Sophia shook her head. “East end?”

  “Why do the two of you want to go?” Tristan demanded. “What possible reason could you have? Do you remember what we saw in that cave, what was done to them?”

  James crossed his arms, and the small gesture made him seem twice as large as he was. His easygoing manner was somewhat at odds with his big, heavily muscled frame, making it hard to remember just how physically dominant he was until he adjusted his posture to make use of his size.

  Sophia licked her lips. If she went, she’d be traveling with a golden-haired knight and a man who could throw her over his shoulder and carry her away to ravish her while carrying on a conversation about antiquities.

  Damn her imagination. Now was not the time to be considering exactly how nice it would be to be ravished by James, especially if Tristan took a turn ravishing her too.

  Sophia blinked. This was an inappropriate time to be fantasizing about a ménage a trois. Though it had been half a year since she’d last been intimate with someone. Over a year since her last highly erotic intimate encounter—a ménage a trois with a lovely couple, German backpackers. Sophia was not ashamed of her sexual desires and had sought out all different flavors of experiences. After all, she didn’t want to fumble and be awkward once she was married.

  “Sophia? Sophia.” Tristan touched her arm lightly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you by reminding you about the cave.”

  That snapped her back into the moment. “Just because I am afraid doesn’t mean I am not going with you.”

  “You just admitted you’re scared. You don’t need to go. Don’t put yourself through this.”

  “Saying I am afraid is not a weakness. We should all be afraid. If you say you are not, then…” Sophia raised her chin. “Then you are the fool.”

  Tristan sighed. “But you just looked—”

  “I was not thinking about the murders.”

  Tristan’s golden brows drew together. He wasn’t convinced. It was time for her to play her best card.

  “I will be able to get information about the investigation from my brother. If I’m with you, I can tell you everything the security team in Rome learns.”

  “The fleet admiral can ask your father for that information.” Tristan’s response wasn’t aggressive. No, that wasn’t the way of the knight. Instead, he spoke almost casually, as if they were having a discussion about someone unrelated to murder and threats of violence.

  “Vero, but this will be faster. And I doubt the fleet admiral, and the Spartan Guard, will give you whatever information my father gives them.”

  When Tristan had approached her brother back in the cave, when he’d looked over the bodies and started asking questions, Sophia knew that he was the sort of person who needed information. Maybe it was part of being a knight—knowledge is power. Maybe it was unique to Tristan—was he a man with a curious nature? Either way, she was betting that Tristan’s desire for information would override his other objections to her coming.

  “Damn, man, she just outmaneuvered you again.”

  Tristan took a few steps and rested his butt on the edge of the table. He crossed his arms and his chin sagged to his chest. “Why?”

  “Why what?” James asked, not bothering to hide his smile.

  “Why do I always end up with crazy people?”

  “Always?” Sophia asked, a smile tugging at her lips.

  “Yes. Always. That wanker Weston and his merry band of lunatics, now you two.” Tristan continued to mutter to himself, voice low enough they couldn’t hear. She thought he said something like, “safer to keep her with me or make sure she stays here? With me. Only way to be sure.”

  Sophia and James traded a glance, and then a grin.

  “It’s late,” she said. “We should all get some sleep. We’ll leave at three.”

  “A.M.?” James’s horror was comical, but genuine.

  “Yes. We have to swing by my apartment in Rome to get my passport and some clothing.”

  “I’ll call the travel service.” Tristan fished his cell phone out of his pocket. “See if we can go straight to the Isle of Man.”

  “Your rooms are adequate?” she asked.

  “They’re gorgeous. Do you have a room?”

  James’s question hung in the air, and Sophia raised one brow.

  “Uh, I…just. I…”

  “Now who got outmaneuvered, big guy?” Tristan slapped James on the shoulder as he passed, phone pressed to his ear.

  “I do have a room, James.” Sophia walked up to him, hips swinging. His eyes traveled the length of her body, lighting with desire. “Would you escort me?”

  James held out one arm, and Sophia laced her arm through his. She guided him out of the sitting room they’d been using, up to the third floor and the family wing. She had a lovely suite of rooms, all decorated in a manner whatever expensive designer her father had hired felt was appropriate for a princess. There was lots of gilt, crystal, and pale blue.

  She opened the door, stepped inside and turned to face James.

  He stared down at her—way down. He really was quite tall. His shoulders filled the doorway, and his physical presence made her feel small and fragile, and ravishable.

  Sophia placed her hands on his chest, rose on tiptoe…

  And kissed his cheek.

  The flirtation had felt good, as had her brief moments of fantasy, but she wasn’t a schoolgirl, and wouldn’t be so foolish as to take any of it seriously. After the horror they’d seen, humor and flirtation were bright counterpoints to the dark of night.

  “Good night, James.”

  She closed the door, but even through the wood, she heard what he said next.

  “This isn’t over, Princess.”

  Chapter Seven

  James should be asleep. He’d only slept for two and a half hours at the villa and another hour in the car on the way to Sophia’s apartment in Rome. Three and a half hours wouldn’t get him far, but he needed to research more than he needed to sleep.

  The plane was quiet, the drone of the engines and the air outside, a nice white noise that would make sleep all too easy. If anxiety wasn’t eating a hole in his gut, he would have his head back and eyes closed.

  He hadn’t told them about the mask. He wouldn’t, not until he had more information. And more information meant talking to his cousin, who was currently in Singapore. It had been the middle of the night Singapore time when he’d sent the message, so he’d known he wouldn’t hear back until today. It was now eight a.m. Rome time, and two p.m. in Singapore, and his cousin had sent the information he’d requested an hour earlier.

  Cousin was an oversimplification of his relationship to Cecilia St. John, but she, like her mother—James’s aunt—was an historian. She worked for a multinational import/export company, but her passion was history. If anyone would be able to confirm his theory, it was Cecilia.

  James read through the information Cecilia had sent, the knot of dread in his stomach growing larger with each piece of information.

  Sometimes it bloody hurt to be right.

  James looked at Trist
an, who was asleep in his seat, long legs stretched out. He was wearing jeans and a white oxford shirt. His sword lay on top of his body, the hilt at his breastbone, one hand loosely gripping the handle.

  Sophia was asleep in the chair beside him. She slept in a messy, sprawling way that wasn’t very princessy, and James liked it. She had one leg thrown over the arm of the chair, one arm above her head, and she was breathing heavily through her mouth.

  Between the two of them, it was Tristan who looked like he was waiting for love’s first kiss to break the spell.

  That thought made him smile, and some of the sick feeling eased. They’d only been asleep for forty minutes. James got up and quietly grabbed two blankets, dropping one over each of them. He’d let them sleep.

  Let them rest before he told them what he now suspected.

  Tristan woke to the smell of coffee. He stretched his left arm, holding his sword firmly with the right, and blinked.

  James was upright in his seat, a tiny cappuccino cup on the table in front of him.

  “What time is it?” Tristan asked.

  James turned away from the window. “Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

  The words were teasing, but James didn’t smile.

  Tristan pushed away the blanket he didn’t remember having and sat up. Resting his sword on his seat behind him, he stood and stretched. Sophia was also asleep, but as he watched, she stirred—opening one eye and glaring at him.

  “We’re going to land in about an hour.” James had bags under his eyes and Tristan was sure he hadn’t slept. “I told them to hold off on breakfast. Lunch. Whatever meal it is they were going to serve.”

  “We should eat on the plane. Once we land, we’re not going to stop.” Tristan headed for the galley to let the flight attendant know they wanted to eat now, then stopped to use the bathroom. When he came out, Sophia was waiting her turn.

  Tristan walked back to his seat, which the flight attendant had returned to a seated position. The blanket was gone too, and the table was set up.

  He took his spot, placing his sword beside him between the wall and the seat, wedging it so the handle was up and easy to grab.